April comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.

Love is not all: it is not meat nor drink Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain; Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink.

Heap not on this mound roses that she loved so well; why bewilder her with roses that she cannot see or smell.

When you publish something, it is very much as if you pulled your pants down in public. If what you have written is good, nobody can hurt you; if what you have written is bad, nobody can help you.

Here's a song was never sung: Growing old is dying young.

I would blossom if I were a rose.

Death devours all lovely things.